Swift Dark Mistress
by Araeph
Summary: Jack loves her, nearly worships her. Under his guidance, she will live in legend and daunt the foundations of society in the Caribbean. He thinks her proud and beautifulbut she's not a Mary Sue.


Disclaimer: _Pirates of the Caribbean_ is not mine, and the couple in this story belongs only to one another.

I present a majestic beauty, covetous and yet thrilling. Jack loves her with a depth beyond reckoning, with a mystery that's a matter of course in his life. Am I praising the virtues of my own storybook heroine? Well, not exactly.

Captain Jack Sparrow steered with a steady hand over the vast and treacherous waters. Their swirling deep secrets were not so bloody now, not this day. It was a morning to fly from all thoughts, to simply feel that he was endlessly riding the edge of the world and only she, the ship, kept the nothingness from claiming him.

The wind was keen and lively. The ropes thrummed, taut like strings. Jack shifted his stance, a fluid motion of sea legs that he wouldn't have registered had it not caused a twinge below his right kneecap. Scowling, the captain felt the place where a wooden splinter had driven into his leg. Thank the fates it hadn't gone too deep and the Pearl had been near to port, where Jack's coins had bought a doctor's reasonable skill and the bit had been removed before infection had set in. No worries—even niggling inconveniences could be turned to his advantage.

Jack found the solution in striking a gallant pose, stiffening the posture of his left side while subtly transferring his weight from his injured limb. He narrowed his eyes in mock scrutiny and adjusted his hat at a slightly jaunty angle. Perfect: colorful, and yet foreboding to opponents. It was too bad that no ship had been sighted for days; he would have enjoyed showing off his new stance to a dull little merchant vessel.

His poise broke for the merest moment as he caressed the helm fondly. The Black Pearl demanded his attention nearly every moment. He couldn't be arrogant towards her, for she owned him.

Jack's eyes slid over the dark, solid planks and he heard the deep sighs as the vessel yawed and heaved. It was a day meant to be snatched and savored, lifted carefully away from worry's fat purse and held up, translucent and sparkling, in the shifting shade of the sails.

Jack's gaze swerved upward and he grinned. They had been like wings of sackcloth under Barbossa's command, but Jack flaunted them with glee, even in the somber moments of the night when the Pearl stole through her kindred blackness and the grinning moonlight resurrected one's more unpleasant recollections.

"Cap'n!" A slightly exasperated voice jarred him.

Pursing his lips only slightly, Jack gripped the helm with his right hand and turned to the left halfway to face Gibbs, whose hair had not quite found its way out of its tie, as early as the hour was.

"Aye?" Jack raised his eyebrows, noticing that the old salt was out of sorts. "What ballast's sunk your mood today, mate?"

"'S time ye should be restin'," replied the sailor. "I've come to relieve ye."

The captain brushed aside this complaint with a brusque wave. "My cabin won't capsize if it remains unvisited. 'Sides, there's a bit of an odor emanating from that last trunk we pilfered—wonder if there's a hidden compartment in it somewhere."

Shaking his head, the first mate stepped closer, folding his arms over his chest but not laying a hand on the helm. "Jack, ye haven't slept all night!" grumbled Gibbs.

Had he not? Jack cocked his head and eyed his first mate curiously. "How long's it been?"

"A day, or near enough, and wit' ye needin' to rest yer leg, I don't recommend—"

"Right, right," the captain gave in unhappily. "S'pose I'll march off to man the chamber pots. Wake me if you spot a ship, I don't care what kind it is. Another day without action and we'll be needin' to dust off the cannons."

He stepped down from his post and winced in pain. Perhaps he was not quite the immortal Captain Jack Sparrow he had imagined himself to be while at the wheel. Still, it wouldn't do to show that he was still feeling a bit off. Consequently, his gait, though somewhat lopsided, was quite energetic.

He could not help one glance back. Ah, his vessel was proud, gliding through the shards of sunlight, the swells becoming her like lace a fine lady. How she raced the gusts, how firmly balanced she rested atop the white summits. She was more than beauty. She was quintessence.

Moving sleekly between the worlds, Jack's _belle dame sans merci_ made his breath catch in his throat. How mightily, boundlessly splendid she was.

I did spell-check and proofread this, but there might still be lingering mistakes. This was very much an unconsciously written piece, and I'm not sure why it bubbled up from the depths today. Feedback is appreciated, especially constructive criticism.


End file.
